Irish Songs and Poems By William Allingham: Second Edition: With Nine Airs for Voice and Pianoforte, and a Permanent Photograph of the Waterfall of Asaroe |
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THE BAN-SHEE.
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 | Irish Songs and Poems |  |
145
THE BAN-SHEE.
A BALLAD OF ANCIENT ERIN.
I.
‘Heard'st thou over the Fortress wild geese flying and crying?
Was it a gray wolf's howl? wind in the forest sighing?
Wail from the sea as of wreck? Hast heard it, Comrade?’—‘Not so.
Here, all still as the grave, above, around, and below.
Was it a gray wolf's howl? wind in the forest sighing?
Wail from the sea as of wreck? Hast heard it, Comrade?’—‘Not so.
Here, all still as the grave, above, around, and below.
‘The Warriors lie in battalion, spear and shield beside them,
Tranquil, whatever lot in the coming fray shall betide them.
See, where he rests, the Glory of Erin, our Kingly Youth!
Closed his lion's eyes, and in sleep a smile on his mouth.’
Tranquil, whatever lot in the coming fray shall betide them.
See, where he rests, the Glory of Erin, our Kingly Youth!
Closed his lion's eyes, and in sleep a smile on his mouth.’
‘The cry, the dreadful cry! I know it—louder and nearer,
Circling our Dūn—the Ban shee!—my heart is frozen to hear her!
Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of white
Flitting away?—I saw it!—evil her message to-night.
Circling our Dūn—the Ban shee!—my heart is frozen to hear her!
Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of white
Flitting away?—I saw it!—evil her message to-night.
‘Constant, but never welcome, she, to the line of our Chief;
Bodeful, baleful, fateful, voice of terror and grief.
Dimly burneth the lamp—hush! again that horrible cry!—
If a thousand lives could save thee, Tierna, thou shouldest not die.’
Bodeful, baleful, fateful, voice of terror and grief.
Dimly burneth the lamp—hush! again that horrible cry!—
If a thousand lives could save thee, Tierna, thou shouldest not die.’
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II.
‘Now! what whisper ye, Clansmen? I wake. Be your words of me?
Wherefore gaze on each other? I too have heard the Ban-shee.
Death is her message: but ye, be silent. Death comes to no man
Sweet as to him who in fighting crushes his country's foeman.
Wherefore gaze on each other? I too have heard the Ban-shee.
Death is her message: but ye, be silent. Death comes to no man
Sweet as to him who in fighting crushes his country's foeman.
‘Streak of dawn in the sky—morning of battle. The Stranger
Camps on our salt-sea strand below, and recks not his danger.
Victory!—that was my dream: one that shall fill men's ears
In story and song of harp after a thousand years.
Camps on our salt-sea strand below, and recks not his danger.
Victory!—that was my dream: one that shall fill men's ears
In story and song of harp after a thousand years.
‘Give me my helmet and sword. Whale-tusk, gold-wrought, I clutch thee!
Blade, Flesh-Biter, fail me not this time! Yea, when I touch thee,
Shivers of joy run through me. Sing aloud as I swing thee!
Glut of enemies' blood, meseemeth, to-day shall bring thee.
Blade, Flesh-Biter, fail me not this time! Yea, when I touch thee,
Shivers of joy run through me. Sing aloud as I swing thee!
Glut of enemies' blood, meseemeth, to-day shall bring thee.
‘Sound the horn! Behold, the Sun is beginning to rise.
Whoso seeth him set, ours is the victor's prize,
When the foam along the sand shall no longer be white but red—
Spoils and a mighty feast for the Living, a carn for the Dead.’
Whoso seeth him set, ours is the victor's prize,
When the foam along the sand shall no longer be white but red—
Spoils and a mighty feast for the Living, a carn for the Dead.’
| Irish Songs and Poems | |